


The Rain It Raineth Every Day

by elviaprose



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elviaprose/pseuds/elviaprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief sequel following on from Aralias's An Apple Cleft in Two. In which Blake and Avon tie the knot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rain It Raineth Every Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/gifts).
  * Inspired by [An Apple Cleft in Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015947) by [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias). 
  * Inspired by [I Shall Have Share In This Most Happy Wreck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027218) by [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias). 



> Many thanks to aralias, for writing the original fic, for hand holding, and for betaing! 
> 
> In the tradition of "An Apple Cleft in Two," the title is taken from Twelfth Night (this one's from Feste's final song: "But when I came, alas! to wive/By swaggering could I never thrive...and the rain it raineth every day")

“Yes,” Darvid said. He swallowed the mint in his mouth—mostly dissolved, anyway. “Yes, I’m ready. Yes, I’m starting.” His coverage for Teal-Vandor Live had had a far narrower viewership than that of the New Alliance Broadcast News, and his salary was three thousand credits higher, now. The thought put a smug smile on his face, which he fixed in place with an ease born of long practice. 

“Stars. Up close, they blaze fire and heat. From afar, they are mere pinpricks of light. Today, the stars we look upon, from up close or from afar, from the stands or from our viz-screens, are the President of the New Alliance and his Chief Advisor, as they pledge themselves to each other in that most revered and cherished ceremony: marriage. From the highest seat in Fargo-Mann Stadium, the President and his husband-to-be are barely visible to the naked eye. Let’s get a shot—yes, you can see, it’s a dizzying view. Let’s hope they brought along their optic enhancers….”

***

Avon knew he looked dour and ill at ease, entirely miscast as Blake’s dearest husband. That he was standing next to the criminally handsome Del Tarrant, who insisted on flashing his teeth compulsively at the crowd, the cameras, and even Avon himself, didn’t help matters. It was almost enough to make him regret snapping “Tarrant,” when Vila had asked him who he’d be having for a best man, then, eh, Avon?

Deva, on the other hand, looked fidgety and pale beside Blake. Perhaps, in the face of the enormous mob in the stands, Deva regretted appointing himself to the job. Avon understood regret. He regretted washing his hands of all decisions surrounding the event, regretted agreeing to marry Blake, regretted loving the kind of man who would put him through this… 

***

“President Blake’s innumerable friends, admirers and allies and Councilor Avon’s contributions to space travel technology have ensured the exchange of vows will have an impressive audience. Leaders and diplomats, the galaxy’s most powerful men and women, have braved the hostile black of space to wish the happy couple well. Let’s see who’s watching with us, from the V. I. P. section. Front and center, we have the couple’s closest friends, heroes of the revolution, one and all: Soolin, Vila Restal, Dayna Mellanby, Jenna Stannis. Don’t they all look pleased for their friends? From the Teal-Vandor Confederacy: Max Leff, Teal’s ambassador and Geena Reb of Vandor. First Minister Hunda of Heliotrix, King Ro of Silmareno, Yuriana of Luminar VII. In the next row, Boorva  of Tarl, Chalsa of Khom , Lod of Hirriel,  Mida of Lovis. President Sarkoff of the Independent Republic of Lindor, and his wife—ah, apologies, the voice in my ear tells me that is his daughter, Tyce Sarkoff…”

***

“Avon and I agreed, in the tradition of first calendar marriages,” Blake said, “on an exchange of vows. And so I say, ‘I, Roj Blake, promise to be true to you, Kerr Avon, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love and honor you all the days of my life.’” He paused. “But I am _not_ going to ask for that same promise from you. What can a single promise weigh against all the days we’ve spent together? I trust you. Completely.” 

“You may kiss each other,” the officiant said flatly, hardly seeming to notice Blake’s change to their script. 

Avon, on the other hand, was utterly undone. He had once told Shrinker with bitter irony that he was a man of his word. What no one ever understood was that once you need to offer your word to prove yourself, you might as well not offer it at all. But Blake did understand, and Avon—

His face, he thought, must be a picture. One soon to be printed in various newspapers of varying degrees of repute. The reality of what had actually happened was catching up with him. Blake had told the galaxy what a fool Avon was for him, and he had also made sure they would all see it for themselves. 

“Well, Blake? Is the wedding off entirely, or does your romanticism not quite extend to shredding the document which will combine my financial assets with yours?” Avon rapped out.

Blake rolled his eyes. “Don’t be absurd, Avon.”

“ _You_ are being absurd,” Avon said through gritted teeth. The silence stretched long. Avon strode close to Blake and spoke into his ear in a furious whisper. “You knew what that would do to me. _You did it deliberately._ ” Then he pulled away again. How long had Blake been planning to do it? Had the officiant known?

“Avon,” Blake said.

“Blake,” Avon snapped.

“Avon,” Blake said again, looking into Avon’s eyes. 

“ _Blake_.” Avon’s lips twitched slightly. Damn Blake, with his face and his voice, and his way of staring Avon down until everything looked different. 

“Avon, that _wasn’t_ my intent.” And Avon believed him and wondered—with only a touch of irony—how he’d ever doubted.

“All right. Blake. But if you want a man who is capable of a decent apology, you should marry Tarrant. I would tell you not to mistake me for him, but—“

“Yes, that’s my line,” Blake said with a laugh. 

“Yes. Now shut up,” Avon murmured, drawing closer again, “and kiss me.”

***

“Delightful. Moving. Poetic,” Darvid drawled. “Hardly a dry eye in the stadium. A brief detour off script shows us a different face of the enigmatic Kerr Avon: the face of a man in love…” 

***

After an interminable reception filled with toasts and, on one particularly mortifying occasion, a musical performance, they staggered back to their rooms and collapsed. Avon watched Blake struggle with the snaps that fastened his shirt. Blake’s sprawl on their bed made for an awkward angle. When he managed to undo them all, he let out a long breath and closed his eyes, obviously beyond exhausted. If Blake hadn’t brought all of it, down to the last snap on his high collared shirt, upon himself, Avon might have felt sorry for him. Beyond the events of the day, half of Blake’s guests had arrived anywhere between three days and three weeks early, hoping for a private meeting with Blake to address this or that matter of policy. And Blake, being Blake, had agreed to as many meetings as he possibly could.

“Thank you,” Blake sighed, as Avon tugged his boots off for him, then lay down beside him. 

After five years, Avon knew when Blake was absolutely not up to sex. He wasn’t up to much himself either, but—why not punish Blake a little?

He bit down on the lobe of Blake’s ear. “It’s our wedding night. Aren’t you going to make love to me?” 

“Ah, Avon,” Blake groaned, eyes still closed. Just another moment, and Avon would admit he was all talk… 

“Of _course_ ,” Blake said, and Avon knew he meant it, knew he’d do it, if Avon wanted it. He’d do whatever he always did to keep going, keep fighting, and he’d do it for _him_.

Avon grinned his most ironic grin. Caught in his own trap. Two words from Blake, and he was desperate for him. Of course, he couldn’t let Blake martyr himself like that. Avon closed his eyes and lay still, letting the minutes tick by, trying to get his desire for Blake under control. Useless. He couldn’t do it. 

And there was no point even trying to pretend to Blake he didn’t want to make love to him, now. Blake would see through it instantly, and follow through and fuck him. And probably enjoy it, once they got going—Avon didn’t like to undersell himself—but that wasn’t the point. Blake had the stronger will, and Blake was the better man. He—

A snore came from beside him. 

Avon turned over and laughed into his pillow until he thought his gasps for breath alone might well wake Blake. Then he got up and went to the shower, where he turned the water on hot and brought himself off as efficiently as he could, biting his lip to keep quiet. 

***

Darvid checked his teeth in his pocket mirror. “Yes, yes. Ready.” He tucked the mirror away and fixed his smile back in place. “Fargo-Mann Stadium is empty this morning, a hollow shell littered with abandoned programs and cast off wrappers, the only signs that yesterday it was packed to the last seat. Well, nothing gold can stay. If you wanted a flight out of the spaceport today, you’d better have booked your ticket in advance. There will be no standby seats available. Queues are likely to try the patience of even those still riding high after yesterday’s big event…”

***

A vizcast was murmuring out of the screen mounted in the far wall. Blake had kept the volume low, and Avon was unable to make much of it, dazed with sleep as he was.

“What is that?’ 

“Go back to sleep,” Blake said, which was almost annoying enough to pull him into full consciousness. Not quite, though. 

He drifted fuzzily until Blake began stroking his hair. It must, Avon realized, have dried rather unflatteringly against his pillow. He pried his eyes open.

“Well, now, are you going to make up for last night? I’m sure you’ve fucked me after worse days,” Avon rasped. “You must be getting old.”

“Worse days, Avon?” Blake grinned. “You surprise me. _Yesterday_ , yesterday was your idea of hell.” He slid down in bed and brushed his lips against the cotton that covered Avon’s cock. 

The vizcast was still playing, and having looked away from Blake and up at the screen, it was now obvious to Avon what it was. He could just make out the words—

_“…on an exchange of vows. And so I say, ‘I, Roj Blake…”_

“Yes, you surprise me too. It’s very rarely pleasant," Avon said. "Ah, Blake, stop. Damn you, that’s—Where’s the—Oh, fuck. The viz-controller. Blake. Stop. _Stop_. Unless you want a divorce, you will turn that off. _Now_.”


End file.
